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The inky black figure slowly rises from beneath the ground, five clawed fingers clumsily scraping at the surface as its head takes shape, body staggering, standing upright, and then collapsing into nothing but a puddle of nightmare fuel at the base of where its feet once were. Maxwell has to bite back the frustrated yell that builds up in his chest.
Shadow clones used to come so easily to him, the Codex Umbra’s instructions serving as the perfect starting point for the magic to go off of. It’s not that Maxwell hadn’t memorised the spell by now, that was far from the core of the problem, but nightmare fuel had the tendency to act in unpredictable ways when not supported. That page used to be the support, and now it was torn from the book’s binding, shoved into the chest of a magic trick gone wrong.
Maxwell still hadn’t reclaimed the chunk of sanity that Max’s existence took from him. That could’ve been another explanation as to why he was struggling.
These events had been repeating themselves for the past month now. He’d wait until everyone at camp went to sleep and then struggled alone in the comfort of his own tent to conjure up something worth his merit. Time and time again, his results proved to be less grand than he would’ve hoped. There was an improvement, yes, but it was obnoxiously gradual in its pacing. Maxwell didn’t necessarily have that kind of patience anymore, but the best he could do was heave out a heavy sigh and try again.
There’s no sound in the area other than the ghastly groan each clone produces before caving in on itself: a low, whispering tone that dissipates into the air and threatens to blow out the light flickering from Maxwell’s lantern. It leaves the atmosphere cold and uninviting, and the stinging in the magician’s hands only increases with each attempt. Frustrating, that’s how he’d describe it. Out of every trick up his sleeve that he could’ve possibly lost, it had to be the one he used most.
He starts to feel tuckered out by his twelfth attempt, shutting the Codex with a slam and running his fingers through his hair, eyes squeezing shut as if cutting off his field of vision would help calm his nerves. The darkness brought more stress than anything, but at least right now he had a faux control over when it’d hit him. He chooses to stay like this for a while, his right hand steady on the book’s cover and his left pressing against his forehead to soothe the pang of a migraine.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
The steady rhythm stirs him from his brief moment of peace, Maxwell’s eyes shooting open just in time for him to see the flap to his tent be pulled to the side. He scowls, fingertips curling around the Codex protectively.
“You’re not supposed to be here…” He hisses, having the courtesy to not speak loud enough to stir the rest of the camp.
“I had a feeling you’d be awake,” Wanda responds just as quietly.
Maxwell wasn’t sure if he had ever had a one-on-one conversation with her. He hadn’t ever wanted to, that was for sure. His first encounter with the horologist involved her slicing his head clean off of his shoulders, the layer of irony that his former status as king added to the situation leaving a crude taste in his mouth. Wanda never properly apologised after his revival, either, claiming that she ‘simply didn’t know any better at the time’.
“The statues were misleading,” she had said, “We assumed that you were still in charge. There wasn’t much there to prove otherwise.”
“What is it that you want?” He asks, eyeing her up and down. She looked prepared for something, to say the least, the backpack slung over her shoulders full and her impressive collection of watches displayed around her belt; loud and easily accessible. She holds a light-source in one hand and a book in the other. Maxwell cocks his head to the side.
“The jar of fireflies is a… unique choice,” he adds. Wanda frowns at him, hesitantly stepping into the tent instead of lingering around outside. When he doesn’t make any verbal protests, she places the firefly jar down next to his lantern.
“I’m not armed,” she starts, “Or, well, I am technically, but she’s tucked away behind me, and my hands are kinda occupied right now,” Maxwell assumes that the ‘she’ Wanda was referring to was that damned Alarming Clock of hers, “Could we maybe have a quick chat?”
“At this hour?” Maxwell scoffs, “In my tent? Surely this can wait until morning. Besides, aren’t you supposed to be watching over your own side of the forest?”
“That job becomes more and more taxing with each minute that passes,” Wanda proclaims, the book she was holding now more visible as the minimal brightness flickers against its blue, hardback cover.
Lunar Grimoire. The sight leaves Maxwell somewhat stunned, and he notices that he had shrunk back a bit in posture.
“That’s…”
“Cut all the small-talk,” Wanda interrupts him, noticeably struggling to keep the volume of her voice at a low, “Despite my personal gripes, I need to ask you something; a favour, if you will.”
“How did you to convince Ms. Wickerbottom to let you borrow—”
“I put mandrake juices in her tea before she isolated herself for the evening,” Wanda cuts him off again, ignoring how his eyes widen even more than they already had, “I didn’t convince her of anything. She is fast asleep. Thank God for that, too. It’ll do her just as much good as it’s doing me. She’ll wake up feeling well rested. Maybe she’ll even grow to be thankful.”
“You drugged her?” Maxwell has to stifle back an appalled laugh, “Excuse me? Have you officially gone mad?”
“Your book,” Wanda snaps, ignoring his jabs, “The Codex Umbra, I need it. That’s why I’m here, I need to borrow your book.” Maxwell immediately clutches the item in question close to his chest, unable to stop his jaw from hanging slack at the words leaving her mouth. Wanda barely does as much as blink in retaliation, simply standing there in front of him, the sounds of clockwork whirring around her as if it was a part of her organic system.
“I’m leaving around the time the darkest hour hits us,” she continues when he fails at formulating a response, “This place is driving me nuts. I can’t stay for much longer.”
“And you need both the Lunar Grimoire and the Codex Umbra,” Maxwell shifts in his seat, suddenly not as confident as he had been when she had initially arrived, “Where in God’s name are you headed?”
“Home,” She says, her voice trembling in anticipation, “I am going home. Eventually, that is. Home is my end goal. I have this plan, and I swear it’s a plan worth considering. I just… I cannot stand around waiting for everyone else here to get a grip and catch up. I’m losing it over here.”
“I can tell,” he responds cautiously, “But surely you haven’t lost it enough to think that I’d even consider handing you what you want.”
“No, of course you wouldn’t. Not directly, that is,” Wanda was swaying back and forth on her heels now, her fingertips drumming against what was essentially Wickerbottom’s stolen property, “Which is why I am offering a truce, of sorts.”
Maxwell’s heart lurches a bit at just how familiar she was sounding, but it would be a lie to say that she hadn’t intrigued him.
“… Go on…”
“I’m suggesting that we team up as travel partners.”
There is a long silence that follows as they stare at one another, the only movements either of them making being uncertain twitches and frantic glances at the tent’s entrance to make sure no one walked in on their standoff. Oddly enough, Maxwell’s grip around the Codex had loosened a bit, and he manages to sit up straight.
“Why me?” He finally asks, squinting at Wanda suspiciously, “How can I be sure that this isn’t just some way for you to lure me into a false sense of security that aids your eventual betrayal?”
“Because you know things, Mr. Carter,” Wanda says almost hopefully, “We both know things, meaning we’re the only ones who can begin to fix this mess,” She leans in a bit, as if telling him a secret, “You’ve heard the whispers too, right?”
“What whispers?”
“The whispers about settling,” She answers through gritted teeth, “The whispers about giving up.
I hear it in passing: this grand, pretty little idea everyone’s started having. ‘Why don’t we just continue our lives here as it is?’ They say it with the cadence of a joke, as if they’re trying to convince themselves that the concept doesn’t sound appealing… But we’ve already started building our little community, making friends with the Constant’s passive inhabitants, getting used to our cage’s environment. It’s becoming dangerous, a skewered case of Stockholm syndrome that— to put it simply— scares the shit out of me.”
Maxwell furrows his eyebrows, gently biting down on the inside of his cheek as he processes Wanda’s monologue. Whatever ‘Stockholm syndrome’ meant was lost on him, but he could capture the essence of what she was trying to express.
Her peers were losing the hope that she continued to cling to for dear life. He clears his throat.
“Who else knows about this journey you’re taking?”
“No one. It’s only you that I’ve bothered telling.”
“Not even Walani?” Maxwell says, surprised, “The two of you seem so close.”
“She wouldn’t understand,” Wanda murmurs, “She’s too… comfortable. And all I ever hear from her and the rest of them are concerns about my work. You’re the one other person here who can grasp that the magic we have is a necessary evil.” Maxwell shakes his head, chuckling a bit.
“That’s… certainly a way of wording it.”
“So you’re disagreeing with me?”
“… No. I’m not.” He hated to acknowledge the point she was making, but it wasn’t fair to lie and say that she was entirely in the wrong.
It was true, work from all ends had been coming to a slow halt. Winona’s power generators got them no further than advancing in their defences, which— now that he was actually thinking about it— kind of supported Wanda’s claim that people were starting to favour staying put instead of getting a move on. Hell, he had even heard Wilson muttering something about improving the condition of their living spaces a few days prior. Maybe the time traveler’s overthinking was holding an ounce of rationality for once.
Maxwell almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
“Tell me, then,” He hums, “What is this grand plan of yours that is, as you put it, worth my consideration?” Wanda’s eyes light up, as if she had been waiting for someone to pry an answer out of her for eons.
“I’ve come to learn that the moon that looms above us is one of Them,” She grins, “In fact, it’s not a moon at all, is it? An all-seeing eye, perhaps?” Maxwell’s intrigue is replaced by bone-chilling fear.
“Alter.” Saying the name leaves his mouth dry.
“Yes! Yes, Alter, that’s what it was,” Wanda’s excitement towards the topic comes off as almost inappropriate, “See? I told you that you’d pick up what I’m laying down.”
“Keep your voice down,” Maxwell glares at her, his tone back to being aggressive, “You don’t want to be overheard running your mouth over something as serious as Them.”
“This is important,” She replies exasperatedly, “Alter has power, power that we can harness if we are careful enough.
Surely you’re no stranger to how connected the moon is to the Earth, both scientifically and within mythology. I suspect that it’s no different here. She watches over everything, yes? Her light triggers unorthodox threats and surprises, it taps into things that directly effect us. Aren’t you always complaining about— oh, botheration, what’s his face— Woodie’s transformations? That’s all her! Wilba’s curse, too! If we manage to get ahold of whatever sorcery it is that she uses, a magic powerful enough to shift and tear our surroundings, I guarantee that we can tap into some sort of gateway.”
Maxwell’s teeth were clenched so hard that his jaw ached, his heart pounding in his chest. Now Wanda had officially lost him. There was no way she could’ve been serious but, when he stares at her in awe at the audacity and nerve being thrown out into the open, he notes just how eager her expression was.
Wanda was speaking with her whole chest, standing by every detail, and it was terrifying.
“You can’t possibly believe that this is achievable,” Maxwell breathes.
“Oh, but I do,” Wanda counters, “We just need to find the Lunar Island. That’s where we can tap into Alter’s potential. The land is just a piece of her, after all.”
“Would you stop it with all this talk about we?” He sputters, “I haven’t come to any sort of agreement! You sound mental!”
“Every idea starts out sounding a bit crazy, Maxwell,” Wanda retorts, clearly no longer caring enough to address him formally, “But once we get into the swing of things, you’ll be fully on board. It is possible. The right tools exist, we just need to find them.” Maxwell shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose and huffing out a shaky breath of air.
“… Do you realise how hard I’ve fought to gain the mere fraction of trust from the others that I have?” He grumbles, “If I pack up my things and vanish in the dead of night to embark on some journey towards Alter, it’ll destroy everything. I won’t be able to turn around if I change my mind.”
“It’s all for a good cause,” She protests, clasping her hands together as she thinks for a moment, “Okay, let’s argue that you don’t actually hold any remorse for your past actions. You adored being on that throne with every inch of your soul. So be it! By following me, you’d still be getting yourself a one-way ticket out of hell. And if you are plagued by guilt? This is your chance to finally make it up to them. You’re the one who brought everyone here, you can help lead them home.”
“This idea of yours is preposterous,” Maxwell growls, “Trying to claim the power of one of Them is going to get you killed. Permanently. It’s not worth the risk.”
“But it is,” Wanda laughs out of frustration, “I can make it work!” She cups her face in her hands, rubbing her palms against the skin frantically before her rant continues.
“Maybe in some other timeline, nestled up nice and far away from this one, there’s a Wanda who is more levelheaded than I am. I bet she’s got her selection of charms and wits, silly little speech patterns of her own that leave her more likeable than not. She’s probably experienced and wise, willing to adapt and accept the bare minimum. But she’s not here! She’s not now! You may have been given the paranoid freakout, but at least I’m a paranoid freakout who is brave enough to step towards the right direction. I am going to do whatever it takes to get out of here.” Maxwell has to stop himself from yelling when she lurches forward and grips onto the sides of his arms, digging her nails through the cloth of his suit and bringing her face in too close for comfort. The glaze that crosses her eyes is almost manic and her breathing ghosts against his skin, leaving him unfathomably uncomfortable.
“I can feel myself deteriorating, Maxwell,” she whispers, “With each day that I live through I lose yet another portion of myself. The rest of you hold this… connection to where The Constant stands, as unique as each may be, but I am an outlier. I should not be here at all. And if nothing about that changes, I’ll fade into obscurity. I don’t want that.”
“You’re insane,” Maxwell quivers back at her, at this point no longer trying to mask the anxiousness he was feeling as he watches her skin’s complexion age forward in a crude time-lapse.
“No,” Wanda corrects him, “Not insane. I just want things to go back to how they once were.” With that, she lets go of Maxwell and takes a step back, as if common sense was finally catching up to her. She blinks a few times, Maxwell swearing that he saw the faintest outline of a single teardrop roll down her cheek. Wanda pays no mind to this, though, picking her firefly jar back up and tucking the Lunar Grimoire under her armpit.
“I’ll be departing soon,” She explains, her voice now calmer and her face appearing somewhat young again, “You can meet me in between the two camps as late as three ticks into the darkest hour, if this conversation has persuaded you at all to begin with. If you choose to not come, I’ll find a way to make do.” Maxwell doesn’t say anything back to her, and Wanda doesn’t push any further argument. She ducks her head and, without uttering as much as a peep, leaves the tent. Maxwell listens to the sound of her footsteps with a sick feeling in his stomach, his eyes darting across his surroundings. The light from his lantern dims ever so faintly, the Grue’s whispers easing into the air. Finally, Maxwell’s gaze lands back on the Codex Umbra’s alluring cover: cradled in his trembling hands and idly waiting to be used. A bitter taste settles on the tip of his tongue.
The weight from his backpack feels heavier on his shoulders than usual, the light from his torch piercing through the suffocating blackness that taints the midnight air. Maxwell finds Wanda exactly where she said she would be, the horologist staring at one of her watches as it ticks, her foot tapping along to the sound. Her head faces up fast enough to risk whiplash when Maxwell approaches, his face scrunching up when she instinctively holds out her own torch as a means of defense, but she’s quick to lower it and even lets out a relieved sigh upon registering who the new presence was.
“You lead the way,” Maxwell grumbles, averting eye contact, “I’d assume you know the route we’re taking better than I do…”
An appreciative smile crosses Wandas lips, and for just a moment her appearance seems suited for her age.